Mike was getting good at his job now.

At first, he’d always wanted to stay and gloat – it wasn’t enough to throw in a petrol stained rag, and a lighted match after it – he had to hear the first majestic whoosh of flame taking hold, spreading and strengthening. Sometimes he’d even get a little too close, just to feel the first wave of heat lick his face like an overenthusiastic puppy.

But he was a consummate professional now, getting the job done and getting out. After the first few ‘house-calls’, as he thought of them, Mike found it much more satisfying to finish up a night’s business in the company of a beer – only the one, of course – smiling and waiting all the while.

He never had to wait too long.

Some nights his bottle of beer wouldn’t even be finished when that tinny, distorted call of dependency would crackle through the small pager they’d given him the day he signed up to be a hero, and he’d be off to the fire-station to suit up.

Mike was getting good at his job now – everybody said so.